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The Lanvin Murders (Vintage Clothing Mysteries)

Page 4

by Angela M. Sanders


  “Not at all. Do you want another drink?” Surprisingly, her glass was nearly empty. Paul signaled to the bartender. After a minute she brought a second Martini and another O'Douls along with their food.

  “For you,” the bartender said as she set a plate of fried chicken in front of Paul, “And for the princess. Bon appetit, as they say in France.” Joanna was a little lightheaded and glad to see food to soak up some of the gin, but noticed that the bartender could benefit from a few sessions at Berlitz. And maybe charm school.

  Paul looked up, ready to continue the conversation. It was unfair that a man would have such long, thick eyelashes. And her skin felt awfully warm. Must be the alcohol. “So, how did you end up working for my landlord?”

  “During summers in high school I used to help out my uncle. He was a woodworker, among other things. Finish work. We replaced pieces of the altar in the old chapel at St. Phillip Neri, for instance. It turned out that I had a knack for it.” He fastened his gaze on Joanna. “I know what you mean about beauty. Anyway, he went—away—and my aunt agreed to sell me his shop. So I'm still doing woodwork, but I'm moonlighting to make a little extra money to pay off the shop and some of the tools.”

  “Woodworking. That must be really satisfying.” She leaned back. The Reel M'Inn wasn't such a bad place after all. “The past few days have been hellish,” she said, then paused, surprised she had actually spoken.

  “And now you need new locks,” he prompted.

  “Yes, I, it's just...” She didn't know if she wanted to get into it, but the combination of exhaustion, gin, and a sympathetic stranger was hard to resist. “Yesterday I found a body in the store. I guess I'm still a little bit in shock. It was a woman who’d sold me clothes. I can't stop thinking about it and wondering what happened to her.”

  Paul put down his O'Doul's. “Apple told me a little about this. She was supposed to come back for some money but never did, and you were worried. Then she turned up at the store.”

  “She was getting up there in years and didn’t look very healthy. I don't even know if she has family around here. She lived alone. Plus—”

  “Plus what?”

  “She wanted me to give her back a coat I sold her, and I told her to wait.” She looked up. “I found her under that same coat two days later.”

  He pulled a handful of napkins from the dispenser and passed some across the table. “That doesn’t mean she died because of you.”

  “The police seem to suspect me. They said they’d be following up.” She wiped grease from her fingers.

  “Of course. They suspect everyone. You saw her alive a few days ago, so they’ll want to ask you questions. Only natural.”

  She shook her head. “I think I still can’t believe it. The last time I saw Marnie she was smoking, looking for cash, complaining about my store's decor—all the usual things.” A quick laugh escaped. Her tone grew solemn again. “Then I see her and it's, well...” She took a breath. “I’m really going to miss her.” Her voice broke and she looked away. She focused on one of the hipsters who had taken a break from Boggle and was playing a video game involving a rifle and a digital safari. She slowly let out her breath. “I wish I could do something for her.”

  Paul watched her. “Would it make you feel better to talk to her family, or maybe some friends? It shouldn't be too hard. Portland’s such a small town.”

  She tore a piece of skin from her chicken breast, and steam escaped. Standing outside the store that last day, Marnie had been so tiny and frail. And stubborn. Maybe talking with some of Marnie's friends would be a way to dispel the burning knot in her stomach—not helped, incidentally, by the fried chicken and Martinis. “She used to dance at Mary's Club.”

  “Mary's Club? No kidding. I bet she had a few stories.”

  “Oh yeah, every once in a while she'd talk about them. From the sound of it, she was pretty busy in her day. But she never said much about her life now.”

  “She was older, right? My uncle used to know the manager. They used to work together.”

  Her focus sharpened. “Really? Maybe he could introduce me. Maybe he knew Marnie.”

  “It’s not really a good time now. He’s not really available for visitors.” He toyed with his fork, then backed up his chair. It hit one of Joanna's boxes. “Hey, what do you have in these, anyway?”

  She pulled open the box next to her and lifted out a pink poodle skirt with a full crinoline. “Costumes from the opera. This one's from a 1950s Carmen.” She laid it across her lap and unfolded a leather vest and blue pantaloons and held them up. “Don Giovanni.”

  A tall, bearded man undoubtedly with a few pints under his belt came up to their table. “What's this?” He lifted the pantaloons. “May I?”

  Joanna looked at the pantaloons and shrugged. They had already survived a month of performances, surely a biker monkeying around in them for a minute couldn't hurt. The pantaloons were made for a man of Pavarotti's dimensions, but the skinny beer drinker pulled them over his jeans and tucked the extra fabric into his waistband. “Hey, look, Ruthie,” he yelled to a woman smoking at the bar. “Wait a minute.” He hustled to the juke box. A few seconds later the throbbing bass of Michael Jackson's “Billie Jean” flooded the tavern. He began to moonwalk in front of the bar.

  Ruthie stubbed out her cigarette and came over to Joanna and Paul's table. “What else have you got? What's in this one?” She reached into the box next to Paul. She tried to pull up one of the poodle skirts, but it was too small, so she buttoned on a nightshirt and stuck a silk rose between her teeth. Then she went to join Don Giovanni by the juke box.

  Paul put on Brünnhilde’s horned hat. “Hello, dance party.”

  Before long, Joanna's boxes were empty, and the tavern's patrons were dancing to the BeeGee's “Staying Alive.” Only the Boggle players declined to dance. They did, however, push their table closer to the corner to open up the floor.

  “Shall we?” Paul asked.

  “I don't know—we don't have any more costumes.” She'd drunk the second Martini faster than she'd intended.

  He leaned forward. “Come on,” he whispered.

  She laughed. “Oh, all right.” She slipped off her 1970s Céline sandals. Too tall for dancing. Paul took her hand and they squeezed into the melee just as the juke box flipped to “Magic Carpet Ride.”

  The last time she’d danced was years ago, at a wedding with Andrew. He was a competent dancer and proud of it, but he kept checking over her shoulder to make sure someone influential wasn’t at the punch bowl. Paul, on the other hand, was relaxed and easy. He touched her briefly on the upper arm to direct her away from the video poker machine behind her. The spot he touched stayed warm.

  Before “Magic Carpet Ride” ended, a skinny man with prominent sideburns and arms tattooed from wrists to shoulders cut in front of Paul and grabbed her hands. As he flung her around the room, she wondered if anyone had ever danced swing to Steppenwolf before, especially to such a strong lead. Joanna’s head whipped back from the force of his twirl. “Smile, darlin’,” he said. “It’s not that bad.”

  The bartender had emerged from behind the bar, hands clapping above her head, and edged up to Paul. After a turn through the highlights of Saturday Night Fever, some Led Zeppelin, and a few Marvin Gaye tunes, Joanna returned smiling but exhausted to the table. She was in sore need of something to settle her stomach. The tavern's customers had already stuffed some of the costumes back into the boxes, and the few remaining dancers, seeing Joanna was getting ready to leave, took off their costumes and piled them on a chair. She glanced across the bar to see that the brunette who had greeted Paul earlier had returned and cornered him by the video poker machine.

  “Could I get the check?” Joanna asked the bartender, who was pulling a draft beer and still wearing a mantilla from Carmen. The bartender reached up to unpin the mantilla. “Please, keep it.”

  The bartender smiled. “Tonight's dinner is on the house, darling. Now, I'm expecting you back soon. A
nd you, too,” she said to Paul, who had left the brunette and joined Joanna.

  Joanna reached into her purse to get money for a tip just as Paul was pulling out his wallet. She laughed and put a hand to her warm face. “What do they put in those Martinis, anyway?”

  Paul shook his head and smiled, showing the gap between his front teeth. “Let me get the tip. It’s the least I can do. It’s not every night the Reel M’Inn turns into a disco,” he said. “And I’ll help you get these clothes to the store.”

  Paul easily picked up both boxes. Night had fallen, and outside the temperature had dropped just enough that she hugged her bare arms. The rain from the day before had cleared the sky and the moon cast a faint shadow over the bar.

  “This is your car?” he asked.

  “Uh huh. You sound surprised.”

  “Your store is so—meticulous. I expected something different. A vintage Bel Air, say, or a Volvo Ghia.”

  Joanna unlocked the Corolla’s hatchback. “I get that a lot.”

  He stacked the boxes in the car, shoving aside a few bags of estate sale clothes, and sat in the passenger seat. If she lifted her elbow, it would touch his. Sober all at once, she picked through her purse for her keys, avoiding looking at him.

  The starter whined, then quit. She turned the key again after giving the engine more gas. This time it started.

  As Paul had predicted, parking had freed up on the block in front of Tallulah's Closet. She unlocked the store's front door, and he began to unload the car. A few minutes later, Joanna set the last box in the store. Paul was on the curb, closing the hatchback.

  “Thanks for your help,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thanks for the intro to the glories of broasted chicken, too.”

  He laughed, then hesitated. Should she say something more? They stood a moment, looking at each other.

  “I guess I’d better be going,” he said at last. “Wait.” He stooped to the sidewalk and picked something up. “We must have dropped this.”

  It was a frayed silk rose from the Carmen wardrobe. As she reached for its green wire stem, her fingers brushed his. Electricity shivered through her body. Crazy. Just like the movies.

  He set the rose on the car and gently moved his other hand to her back. His lips slowly and softly met hers. His lower lip slid to her cheek as it lifted.

  “Joanna,” he said. “I'd like to see you again.”

  “I…” Adrenalin rattled her bloodstream. For such a chaste kiss, she could hardly breathe. Say yes, say yes, she told herself. Her lips froze.

  The streetlight cut across his face, highlighting the curve of his lower lip. “You're probably already seeing someone.”

  No. No, she wasn’t. Tell him, idiot. She still couldn’t speak. Between fight and flight, flight always won.

  “I see. Well, thanks for the evening,” he said. “I should be able to finish up the painting tomorrow or the next day, at the latest.”

  She wanted to say something to keep him there, to try to explain, but she wasn’t sure she could.

  “Do you need a ride?” she finally managed to get out.

  “No. I don't live far.” He met her eyes. “Bye.” He walked to the end of the block and turned the corner.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning Joanna rose with a sense of purpose. Paul had been right: finding Marnie's friends and family and telling them about her death was something concrete she could do. What she’d tell them, she didn’t know. That Marnie had somehow materialized at Tallulah’s Closet dressed for an evening in front of the television and died? That she had no idea why Marnie was there or even what had killed her?

  As Joanna put the kettle on to boil, the shock of finding Marnie returned, this time mingled with unease. She still hadn’t heard from the police about the autopsy. Detective Crisp’s business card lay on the dining room table. Should she call? No. The police could do their job, and she’d do hers. But she’d slip the card in her purse just in case. In the bottom of her purse her fingers touched the silk rose.

  “What is this, Auntie V? I mean, honestly. A silk rose. Could it get any cornier?” Joanna asked the portrait. “Besides, it’s not like it was some steamy kiss.” Joanna swallowed as she remembered the tremor that had passed through her when they touched. “He probably kisses everyone goodbye like that.” Like that brunette at the Reel M’Inn. She tossed the rose on the table. Well, no chance of anything happening anyway. She’d scared him off for good.

  As for Marnie, the first step was to find her friends. She knew Marnie had danced at Mary's Club and that she'd even had a bit of celebrity in her time. Another potential lead was that an old lover had given Marnie her house. She’d heard the story from Marnie more than once. It was a long shot, but maybe the ex had still been in touch with Marnie or would at least know how to contact her family. Joanna could put her legal research skills to use. Public records should show who owned the house before it was transferred to Marnie, if it actually had been. She could go to the courthouse and try to figure it out, but it was Saturday. She’d have to wait two full days. Or, the computer. Surely that sort of information was online now.

  She wrapped her silk kimono closer and brought a cup of coffee to the second bedroom she used as an office. She pushed aside the stack of dry cleaning receipts covering her computer and narrowed her eyes at the closed laptop. Apple had insisted she get one to keep track of expenses, but after one frustrating session with a spreadsheet program she gave it up and returned to her ledger book. To the shock of her professors, she’d made it through college with a typewriter and sheaves of erasable paper she found at Goodwill. The words, struck unevenly on onion skin paper, were so much more beautiful than anything a laser printer could produce.

  Joanna took a fortifying sip of coffee and pushed the laptop’s power button. It sounded a “ta-da” opening chord and the image of a 1940s rainbow suede Ferragamo platform sandal—a photo Apple installed to lure her to the laptop—filled the screen. The computer’s whirr demanded action. What should she do? She dragged a finger on the touchpad, and an arrow circled the screen. One of these programs hooked up to the internet, but which one?

  Forget this. She picked up the phone. Letter writing and rotary phones may have largely disappeared, but reference librarians were still on the job.

  “Joanna. Long time, no hear. What has it been—a week?” Peter, one of the weekend reference librarians on duty teased her.

  “I need to find out who used to own a certain house in town. I have the name here,” Joanna said.

  “This is a new line of inquiry for you. I was ready for something obscure about stains and rayon crepe.” Clicks from a keyboard traveled the telephone line. “All right, give me the name.”

  Marnie’s house had been owned by someone named Donald Cayle and transferred to Marnie in 1962. After a few more prods, Peter came up with more data. Donald Cayle had been the manager at Mary's Club in the 1950s. By the early 1960s his name showed up in business journal articles citing Cayle Investments. Most of his investments were industrial property—warehouses and strips of land along the river where old factories and docks had been torn down. He'd also been a defendant in a few property-related lawsuits and had given the maximum contributions allowed to a number of Republican political campaigns. Joanna wrote his name on an index card and slipped it into her purse.

  “Thank, Peter. I owe you,” Joanna said.

  “No problem, and you don’t owe me a thing. I’m wearing the tie tack right now that you brought me last month.”

  Her first stop would be Mary’s Club. After a moment's reflection by the closet—after all, she didn't dress to visit a strip club every day—she chose a crisp cotton blouse with a sweetheart neckline and a late-1950s Mexican cotton skirt with a hand-painted spray of flowers across its hem. She pulled her hair into a loose chignon and grabbed the keys to the Corolla.

  ***

  The sign for Mary’s Club flashed the outline of a busty woman in pink and blu
e neon. Surrounding the door was a faded mural of a brunette dressed in a cheongsam who waited for a boat full of sailors disembarking in the background.

  She pushed open the naugahyde-padded door and stood for a moment adjusting her vision to the club's interior, dim after the midday's brilliant sunlight. The room was long and narrow and much smaller than the club's front led her to believe. Stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. To her right was a small bar, and just beyond that a stage no bigger than the bed of a pickup truck with a pole on one side where a blonde gyrated absently. A juke box hung on the stage’s wall. To the left of the stage opened a hallway Joanna assumed led to the office and dressing rooms for the dancers.

  A mural glowed under black light across the back wall. It showed a handful of buff men in tight shirts loading bananas onto a ship. Two women uncannily resembling drag queens adorned the painting’s front, one on each side. Joanna raised her eyebrows. No straight man painted that mural.

  Lunch was over, and Mary’s was nearly empty. A few customers drank beer at the bar, and another, his back to the stage, played video poker.

  “What'll you have, honey?” asked the bartender, a matronly woman in a polo shirt with Mary's Club embroidered over the pocket. Both men at the bar turned to stare at Joanna while the dancer punched another song into the juke box.

  “I'm here to see the manager, please.”

  “What for?”

  Just as she opened her mouth to reply, a young woman with bright pink hair, wearing a ripped tee shirt and denim miniskirt pushed her way through the front door.

  “Hi, Stella,” a man at the bar said.

 

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